Down Comes The Night
by etaknosnhoj
Summary: Secret Agent Summers has a new assignment: uncover the grisly reality behind the Glorificus experiments. But someone keeps getting in her way: a be-cheekboned hottie with uncertain intentions...


**Down Comes The Night**

_Listen to the wind blow_

_Down comes the night_

_Run in the shadows_

_Damn your love, damn your lies_

__

_Okey dokey, here's a brand new fic from me. It's been brewing for a while but I had other stuff to finish first. Basically I remember Kantyra saying she was going to write fics in all her favourite genres, and it made me wonder why I was messing around trying to get to grips with something in the Buffyverse when I've never got past one chapter of that._

_And then I thought, I've written like six spy novels. I can damn well do a Spuffy one. Besides, they're halfway there already: just take a little dash of Initiative and add a pinch of Watcher's Council and you have the basis of the CIA and MI6. Buffy in black-ops regalia and Spike in - well, hell, anything. Give the man a gun and a fast car and I've just had an orgasm on the spot..._

_Ahem. Anyway. Here's my Spuffy Spy story. Hope you like it! Feedback always welcome._

_Etaknosnhoj_

Buffy didn't know why Angel'd thought it would be a good idea for her to do surveillance in Afghanistan. If she ever took her burqa off she'd be stoned - and if she left it on she'd die of heat. Besides which, she couldn't see a damn thing. 

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she fumbled around under the all-encompassing burqa for the earpiece. It was the only way to use it without looking suspicious. 

"Hello?" 

It was Angel. "Buffy, why are you whispering?" 

"Because if anyone hears me talking I'll get stoned." 

"Is it really that bad?" 

"Put it this way. Sometimes I feel like taking my cyanide just to get out of here." 

"Well, it's not gonna come to that. I'm pulling you out." 

"Thank God. Or Allah. Whoever." 

Angel laughed a little - but not a lot, because he was a rather serious fellow. "I'm sending Assif to pick you up in an hour. He'll get you to the base, there's a plane leaving this afternoon." 

"Where to?" 

"Back, here, of course." 

"Angel, I love you," Buffy said passionately. "I'll be right there. Thank you, thank you _so_ much." 

She ended the call and turned to go back to her lodgings - a horrible little room with no water or electricity - when she was stopped by a man coming to stand in front of her. 

She lowered her head and made to walk around him. 

"Where is your escort?" 

Buffy cringed. A woman wasn't supposed to be out alone. She'd been sharing her room with another agent, posing as her brother, but Oz was feeling ill today, and Buffy had risked slipping out alone. 

Bad mistake. 

"He is ill. I came out to get some medicine for him." 

"You are aware that this is illegal?" 

"He could die without my help." 

"Where do you live?" 

Oh God. Now he was going to go back there with her and check. She had to get out, and fast. 

"Um-" maybe if she got him back to the house she could bash him over the head and run away. No, then Oz would be in trouble. He'd have to come with her. Dammit! 

"You cannot remember?" the man sneered. He had dark hair and eyes, sharp, high cheekbones - the look of an Arab sheikh: noble, arrogant, dangerous. 

"No, it's this way." 

She took him down one street, then another, and then a narrow alley. Of course, she had to walk behind, but on every street corner he'd pause for her to tell him if it was the right way or not. 

Buffy was confused. This wasn't normal behaviour. He'd not asked to see papers or anything. She'd heard stories before she came of women being stoned for being out alone - she'd actually seen someone being flogged because her ankles had accidentally shown when she tripped because she couldn't see through the front of her veil. 

Once she had him in the alley, it took her only a few seconds to get her gun out from under her heavy burqa. She had it aimed at him and was just about to pull the trigger when he whirled around and knocked it from her hand, pinning her back against the crumbling wall as the pistol clattered to the ground. 

"Gonna shoot me, are you?" he hissed, and Buffy stared in shock, because he'd spoken in English. And not the stilted, imperfect English of an Arab, but the natural tones of one who's spoken it all his life. 

"I-" 

"You're not the only one who's armed," he said, and with both her arms trapped under her veil, she couldn't stop him from drawing his own gun. It was bigger and heavier and even more illegal than her own. 

"I could kill you," he said. "I should, in fact, for what you've done. But..." 

He was doing something under her veil. With his gun in one hand, he used the other to reach behind her back and - God, he was handcuffing her! Jesus, he had a gun and he was handcuffing her. 

Buffy glanced out of the alley and calculated her chances of escape or rescue. They were both as slim as each other. Even if she cried out, she'd get no help, because she was a lone woman and he was a man with a gun. He could do anything he wanted. 

She struggled against the cuffs, but her arms were trapped by her heavy veil and he locked the bracelets around her wrists easily, fastening them behind her back. 

Then he lifted her veil, and Buffy winced in the sudden bright sun streaming in through the gap in the buildings. She saw the man clearly, saw that although his skin was dusky he did not look like an Arab. He looked like a Westerner. 

He looked cruel. 

"Pretty thing like you shouldn't be hidden away," he said, voice soft. 

"Please release me." 

"Not sure I want to. I know I don't have to. I could take you up before the authorities, you know. Or I could just shoot you here," he held the gun to her temple, and Buffy swallowed. No matter what they did to you in training, there was nothing quite like feeling that you were going to die. 

"Or," he continued, and his voice was so soft a whisper it was nearly a caress, "I could teach you a lesson." 

"I thought we weren't allowed to be educated," Buffy said, and that earned her a laugh. 

"Some things you must learn. Like, for instance," to her horror she realised his hand was pulling up her long skirt, "that it doesn't matter what you wear on the outside," by now his fingers were brushing her thigh, "what's underneath will always give you away." 

He touched the lace of her knickers. Buffy had reasoned that no one at all would ever see them out here, so she'd brought the usual pretty underwear she wore at home. Today's were pink with a lace trim. 

"What do you want?" Buffy said quietly, knowing he wasn't in this to uphold any Taliban rulings. 

In reply, his fingers slipped inside the gusset of her knickers. Buffy gasped and tensed her leg, ready to bring her knee up to where it'd really hurt him, but he pressed the gun just a little bit closer to her head. 

"Not gonna hurt you, sweetheart." His fingers caressed her sensitive folds, and Buffy couldn't suppress a shiver of pleasure. This was disgusting, it was wrong. He was going to rape her unless she did something about it. 

But what? If she tried to stop him he'd blow her brains out. 

Was that preferable? 

Right then his fingers probed deeper and pressed against her clitoris, and Buffy caught her breath. This is disgusting and wrong, she repeated to herself, he's violating me and I am _not_ going to let him- 

Christ, that feels good- 

I will not enjoy this... I mean, _endure_ this... 

He was watching her. "Good?" 

"You disgust me." 

He slipped one finger deep inside her, found her bubbling with hot wetness. "I can see that." 

"You are a revolting-" 

He flicked her clitoris and she flinched with intense pleasure. God, what was wrong with her? This constituted rape, and she- 

She was enjoying it, which was gross, and- 

Not right, surely, for her to be shivering with pleasure? 

"Shh," he said, relaxing the pressure of the gun against her head, "don't fight it." 

And then his mouth descended on hers, hot and soft and sweet. He wasn't hard and demanding, he kissed her like a lover would, his body pressed close against hers. His fingers between her legs. His gun against her temple. 

Buffy heard a moan and realised it was her own. This strange man was kissing her and fondling her, giving her pleasure and taking nothing. But he still held a gun to her head. She couldn't reconcile the difference. 

"Why are you doing this?" Buffy whispered when he finally released her mouth. 

"Can't help myself," he said, and lowered his mouth to her neck while his fingers stroked her harder, touching all the right places, making her squirm and wriggle with desire. She found herself thinking about taking him inside her, feeling him fill her up, thick and hard and pulsing, thrusting, deep and hot and hard, hard- 

She could feel his erection through the tunic he wore. It pressed against her hip and Buffy closed her eyes, imagining it pulsing deep inside her, thrusting where his fingers were now, faster and faster until she- 

God, there it was. Her body juddered as the first waves of her orgasm passed over her. Her mouth opened to cry out but before she could make a sound he'd covered her lips with his, his tongue searching her mouth, taking in her silent cry. 

She bucked and shuddered against his hand, his talented, clever hand, and eventually slumped still, pressed between him and the wall, in a sort of stupor. 

She felt his hand slip out from between her legs and whimpered slightly in protest. His fingers did something behind her back, his lips pressed briefly against hers, and then the weight of his body was gone. 

Buffy opened her eyes when she felt the heaviness of her veil descend over her again, realised her hands were free, and through the mesh panel she saw that the alley was empty. 

He was gone. 

** 

Somehow, she made it back to the little apartment without being stopped by anyone else. No time to wash, and no privacy, either, because Oz was awake, looking pale but better than before, and he watched her rushing around, throwing her few things into her suitcase. Someone was coming to collect her, another agent, and she had ten minutes to be ready. It was a roundabout trip, leaving the city and making for a secret military base in the mountains. Buffy thought with longing of the safety of the base, where she could walk about in shorts and a t-shirt, if she wanted. Of course, safety was a dodgy word when you were an American in Afghanistan, especially if you were a military American. If the base was discovered it'd be obliterated, and there'd probably be a war. 

"Is anyone replacing you?" Oz asked. 

"I don't know. Angel just said he was pulling me out... I guess they don't need any more from me here. There's not much else I could get anyway. You can see far more than me." 

She was babbling. She was horribly nervous. Oz would be able to tell - he was strange like that, had a sort of sixth sense. It made him a great agent - so long as he was on your side. 

Assif knocked on the door. Buffy hugged Oz farewell, adjusted her burqa, and stepped outside. 

Chapter One 

"You sure this is the place?" Buffy said as she got out of the cab with Riley. 

He checked the brass plate by the door. "Daunton's Gentlemen's Club. Yep, this is it." 

"Looks kinda... austere." 

"This guy's name is Rupert Giles, Buffy, I think austere is his gig." 

He stepped up to the door and rang the bell. Buffy, a few paces behind, stood and watched as he spoke to the porter, then waited as the door was closed and Mr Giles's availability sought. It was all terribly proper and polite. Riley should fir right in. 

She knew everyone wanted her to get together with Riley - and really, there was absolutely no real reason why she shouldn't. He was tall and handsome and strong and kind, and even if he wasn't the brain of the century he was reasonably smart, and he had a half-decent sense of humour, which Buffy supposed would set him way above the rest of the Neanderthals she usually dealt with. 

Only... something was stopping her, and she wasn't happy about what it might be. 

It had been three years since Angel pulled her out of Afghanistan, and although at the time she'd been officially angry with him, because she wanted to prove that she could take care of herself, secretly she was grateful as hell, because the situation there had got horribly worse. Probably she'd have got out anyway before the war, but she was glad she'd not got tangled up in the whole weapons of mass destruction thing. 

Angel had managed to get her into the serious crime squad, which was work she relished. She'd been partnered with Riley about six months ago, and they were getting on pretty well. They worked well as a team, although Buffy was a little conscious that she was far better at pretty much everything bar brute strength. And she was no slacker in that department, either. 

And now here they were in London, meeting up with a semi-retired British agent by the highly unlikely name of Rupert Giles. Buffy was pretty sure that had to be an assumed name. Really - _Rupert_? 

The porter returned and escorted them inside the club, through oppressively grand hallways and drawing rooms, up a heavily varnished staircase with threadbare carpet, and into a little lounge bar, wreathed with smoke, where a man sat on an old leather sofa, reading a newspaper, drinking tea. 

Buffy thought that places like this only existed in Oscar Wilde movies. She didn't think men like Rupert Giles existed at all. 

"Mr Giles?" Riley said politely, and the other man looked up. He was probably not much older than Buffy's parents, but there was a slightly shambolic look to him. His glasses were crooked and his socks didn't match. His tweed suit had seen better days. 

And this was what British intelligence had to offer? How were they not speaking German? 

"Good afternoon," he rose to his feet to greet them, and extended his hand, first to Buffy, and then to Riley. "You must be Mr Finn and Miss Summers?" 

They nodded and sat down opposite, and Giles said to the porter/butler, "Tea, please, for my guests." 

He didn't ask them what they wanted, which Buffy thought was a bit rude, but even before any of them had got around to speaking, people started bringing things to the table. A teapot and several very pretty little china cups with matching saucers. Lots of steaming coffee. One of those cake stands with a lot of different types of cake and cookie on it. Adorable little plates with dinky cutlery and a couple of large folded napkins. Finally the butler said, "Anything else, sir?" 

Giles looked at Riley and Buffy. "Would either of you like a soft drink? Or some scotch, there's an excellent-" 

"Not while we're working, thanks," Riley said. 

"Coffee's fine," Buffy agreed, a little overawed. 

Giles nodded to the man, who left, and then gestured to the cake stand. "Biscuit?" 

He put a selection of cookies and cakes on a plate for each of them, then poured tea for Riley - adding milk last, not first - and coffee for Buffy. She watched the ritual done with practice and ease, absolutely fascinated. 

"Sugar?" 

She nodded. "One, please." 

He lifted the lid on an exquisite china bowl and scooped a teaspoonful of loose sugar into her cup, stirred it once, then put the spoon on the saucer and handed it to her. Riley's tea was served with a similar amount of ceremony, and Buffy wondered if everyone in Britain took afternoon tea so seriously. 

"Now," Giles said, as he poured himself more tea, "firstly let me assure you that you can speak freely here. We're all old spooks, we know how it works. I understand you're investigating our Glorificus?" 

They nodded. "We have our own information on her - them," Riley said, because although the name was generally associated with the poisonous Glory, it also referred to the operation she ran - or was suspected of running. "But apparently you're quite the authority on, er, the subject." 

Giles smiled. "Yes, quite. Well," he sipped some tea, and Buffy, who'd forgotten about her own drink, gulped some coffee and scalded her mouth. "I assume you already know about the castle in the Highlands...?" 

"The Thistlemilk Spa," Buffy rolled her eyes. "Yeah. It's on our to-do list." 

"Understandably, sir," Riley gave her a quelling look, "we want to investigate these experiments she's been doing. We came across the remains of one of her test subjects and it was..." 

"Ooky," Buffy supplied, which earned a smile from Giles. 

"Yes. 'Ooky.' Now, the situation before I left was this: Travers and his bunch of dancing bears have been trying to decide whether to investigate further themselves or not. There's a distinct possibility you may run into one of ours while you're about your mission. I assume you'll be going undercover?" 

"One or both of us," Buffy nodded. 

"There's also the research facility in Siberia," Riley said. "What can you tell us about that?" 

"Very little, I'm afraid. The Cold War may be over but Western intelligence is still not very welcome in the Eastern Bloc. And there's very little excuse to be poking around on the Russian tundra." 

"I thought it was offshore," Buffy said. "One of the islands in the Arctic Circle." 

"Novaya Zemlya," Giles nodded. "But we don't know that for certain. If you can get in there, then good luck to you." 

They talked a while longer, then one of the quiet efficient staff presented Giles with a letter on a silver tray and he apologised to Riley and Buffy as he opened it. 

He sighed. "I do apologise," he said, looking up, "but this needs to be dealt with. Bloody gas board, trying to bill me double..." 

He wandered away to a telephone, and Buffy turned to Riley. 

"Shall we stay?" 

"I don't have anything else to ask." 

"Me neither." 

She stood up and waved to the man who'd brought the letter. He frowned a little, but came over. 

"We're off, Jeeves. Say thanks to Giles for us, will you?" 

The man nodded, looking at Buffy like she was an abomination. She'd thought she was looking very conservative in her neat little suit and heels. The butler handed a card to Riley, nodded, and left them. 

"Do I not get a card?" Buffy huffed, checking out Riley's. 

He smiled, tucking the card away. "No, because this is a Gentleman's Club, and you, Buffy, are no gentleman." 

She made a face, but followed him out quietly into the London street. The noise and bustle of the city still took her aback: in Kabul everything had been low and close and threatening, and back in LA all the buildings were gigantic shiny skyscrapers with wide boulevards between them. Here in London there were magnificent Georgian and Victorian edifices cosied up to weird modern architecture and odd little quirks everywhere, like the huge black taxis and the darling double decker buses. The streets had bizarre names: why on earth was The Mall called that when there were no stores there? Blackfriars Road, The Cut, and the incomparable Seething Lane. The streets were twisty and narrow and there were little _roundabouts_ everywhere, which Buffy couldn't take her eyes off. The symmetry of movement still amazed her, like synchronised dancers. And then there was the maze of the Tube system, all those insane names and lines and circular tiled tunnels, and the way no one at all spoke on the trains. No one. Even at stations. It made Buffy want to giggle. And then- 

"Hey, Buffy, you still there?" Riley said, and she blinked. "I said, do you wanna go get something to eat before we go back to the hotel, or-?" 

She shrugged. "Let's get some fish and chips." 

But the greasy food so beloved of Londoners was not as appealing to Buffy, and she left half of hers with a homeless man in Covent Garden Tube station. The astonishing cultural mix in the city still took her breath away. City bankers wearing thousand pound suits dashed past teenagers who slept under cardboard boxes every night. And it was all over the city, too, not just in certain areas. You'd see students wandering along the same streets as well-groomed Chelsea wives and immaculate PR girls, and then there were the Kensington bohos: kids who had more money than God, but who still dressed like the homeless people in shop doorways. 

Buffy didn't get it at all. 

But then, she hadn't got Kabul, and she'd survived there- 

Just- 

She reached up for the grab rail in the Tube train and closed her eyes as it lurched out of the station. Even after three years, the memory of her encounter in the alley was still vivid. She remembered that man's full, soft lips on her own, his clever fingers coaxing her to the greatest pleasure she'd ever known, the husky whisper of her voice as he told her he just couldn't help himself - even though he hadn't, had he, he helped himself at all. Buffy'd felt the raging hard-on beneath his robes, but he'd done nothing about it. It would have been so easy for him to have slipped it inside her, and by that point Buffy wouldn't have protested at all. Gun or no gun, she'd wanted him to fuck her, hard and deep, against that wall where anyone could see them. 

The train rolled to a halt and the motion sent her falling against Riley. He looked down, and a flicker of a smile passed over his face. Buffy smiled back, but inside she was thinking: That's why I don't want you, Riley. Because you're not _him_. 


End file.
